


checkmate

by call_me_steve



Series: dream and wilbur set up one (1) date and now i'm in hell [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Manipulative Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Memories, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Past Character Death, Protective Wilbur Soot, Resurrection, Sort of a character study, The Prison, Wilbur Soot Angst, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur Soot-centric, dream's name is also cornelius, he gets to punch dream :D, past dreambur, slight suicidal thoughts, so post-ghostbur, they're broken up, this was written right after tommy visits the prison that first time, wilbur's been brought back to life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28967133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/call_me_steve/pseuds/call_me_steve
Summary: “I remember everything you did to Tommy,” Wilbur says, without preamble. “During his exile, I mean.”Dream peers off into space, eyes centered just to the right of the clock above the cauldron. “I told him I was sorry, when he visited.”“Are you?”“No,” says Dream. “I don’t think I am.”-Wilbur, once freshly resurrected, goes to visit Dream in the prison. He's alone.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: dream and wilbur set up one (1) date and now i'm in hell [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118123
Comments: 15
Kudos: 274
Collections: sleepy bois inc





	checkmate

**Author's Note:**

> i'm only adding this to the series bc they're ex's now. :/

Wilbur wakes up and his body does not feel right. A few of his curls are stained white, as though he’d aged a few years and was finally going grey. His heart thumps irregularly, missing a beat every so-often. It’s just one of the many things he figures he’ll have to get used to- like the fact that his heart is beating at _all._ Like the fact that he still has all of his memories, too. 

He remembers being Ghostbur- meeting and killing and losing Friend; fleeing to exile with Tommy and being _passive_ as Dream _toyed with his little brother;_ singing to Phil and watching him stand, trapped in his home; standing by beside Friend as Technoblade was put up for his own execution; watching as Fundy found himself a new family that could support him like Wilbur could not. 

He remembers everything his old self had done- blowing up L’Manburg despite Phil trying to stop him; manipulating and _scaring_ Tommy in a narrow crevice surrounded by buttons; allowing Technoblade to deal with the weight of the world and the murder of a child all on his own; destroying whatever faith that Tubbo had once held in him; going down that horrible rabbit hole and losing Fundy. 

They’re not the _easiest_ memories to commandeer. There’s so many things that he should have done, that would have changed the course of… _everything._ Tommy never would have ended up in exile once again- this time _alone-_ and Phil never would have been locked up inside his own house, shouldering all of that guilt and regret. Techno would have never gone off to retirement all on his own-

 _Well,_ thinks Wilbur, _I suppose we know what the theme is?_

Wilbur died, and as such, his family was pulled in a thousand different directions; his family was _forced_ into their own isolation in so many different ways. Phil, in his home; Techno, in the snow; Tommy, in exile. 

Wilbur, in Hell; though he had never been _truly_ alone. 

Because- that’s the hardest part of this. The fact that he has two sets of memories; one of him watching his family crumble to pieces and then gather once more, and another of him and Schlatt up in the clouds, following the whims of the damned Sky Gods. 

It’s- it’s _hard_ to know that Techno and Tommy- then Phil, too- had gathered together only for things to splinter further. Tommy betrayed Techno- (or was it the other way around?)- and Techno and Phil blew up what was left over L’Manburg. 

They’d done it because Wilbur had failed. _God,_ he wishes he hadn’t failed; because, if he hadn’t, then they never would have had to destroy another government and reduce Tommy’s home to ash.

No.

 _No,_ that’s not what Wilbur wishes he had done. Wilbur wishes that he had never gone down that spiral. If he’d never teamed up with Dream-

 _Dream._

There is a part of Wilbur that knows that, though he is also at fault, Dream is _so much more at fault._ Dream is the one who manipulated Tubbo; who _fucked_ with Tommy. He is the reason why Wilbur ever decided to blow up L’Manburg way back in the beginning. He is the reason, he is the reason, _he is the reason,_ and Wilbur _hates him so, so much._

He forced Tommy through some of the worst weeks of his life. Separated him from all of his friends. Ingrained fear responses that no child should have. He forced Tommy to give up all that he had, running towards his discs over and over and over again. 

He _hurt_ Wilbur’s boy- _Wilbur’s_ boy, the one that he had raised while Phil was away; the one he had watched grow up before his eyes; the one that had proven Wilbur wrong time and time again because he was _such a good kid._ He _was,_ and he would only continue to grow up and grow better, for the rest of time. 

_He is going to be the best of us,_ Wilbur knew, knows, _says,_ each and every morning. _You are going to be the best of us._

This is because what he says is true; this is because what he says is _right._

Wilbur has made so many mistakes, but believing in Tommy has never been one. 

But, there is something deep in Wilbur’s chest that still aches and hurts and burns. He tries very hard not to think about it, most days. (But, he thinks more about Tommy than he does of his other boy, because thinking about Fundy hurts so very badly and some nights he cannot _breathe_ because of it.) 

So, Wilbur wakes up. His body feels wrong, because his heart _hurts_ and his bones _ache_ and this damn _thing_ he calls his body cannot really be _his._ It is wrong. It is _wrong._

And Wilbur does not want to think about it, so he goes to find something to take his mind off of all of this pain. 

If Wilbur were a different man, (perhaps a younger version of himself), he’d have gone to Phil. To Tommy. To Techno. To _anyone_ who he cared about once upon a time. 

Instead, he finds himself standing before that horrible, ominous, _looming_ prison. 

Instead, he finds himself going to talk to _Dream._

Perhaps this is not the smartest idea. Wilbur is tired- a different sort of tired that begs him to lay down in the grass so the dirt can pull him back down, six feet under. There is nothing he wants to do more than to go ahead and succumb; he had never wanted to come back in the first place. The only reason he had was because Tommy _wanted_ him back. 

His little brother wanted him back and Wilbur couldn’t say no; he _couldn’t_ have. He’d already failed Tommy one too many times and he wouldn’t let _this_ become another instance. 

That’s why he’s breathing again- and it’s _weird._ No one ever tells you what it’s like when you come back as a ghost, with no need to breathe, and then are suddenly _thrust_ back into the world of the living. More than once, Wilbur has forgotten that he’s alive again; that he _needs_ to breathe. 

Those aren’t the best times- no, for there are mornings when he juts into consciousness from a nightmare and then can’t steady himself by breathing; there are days when Phil tries to coach him through panic attacks and Wilbur can’t pull himself out of it because he just _forgets._

_How do you forget something as important as_ breathing? Wilbur wonders, as he reminds himself- in and out; three-and-four. The prison looms over him, reminding him of high walls that don’t stand anymore. A part of him starts to sing _My L’Manburg,_ but he shoots it down so quickly, it’s as though it were never there in the first place. 

The prison itself is dark and littered with iron bars, rising up countless stories and making Wilbur feel ever so small. He stands at the mouth of it, peering into the dark space, and has to stop himself from wrapping his arms around himself as though he’s a small child. 

He’s Wilbur- the man who’d blown up L’Manburg, who survived and _thrived_ however he could. He is not afraid of anything, not even death, because he knows the _after._

The floor before him is lined red and the walls are checkered. Wilbur stands on the grass and wishes he’d told Phil where he was going, because perhaps Phil would have told him, _Not yet, Wilbur, not yet._

But, Wilbur had not, and he’s not going to back out now. 

He steps into the prison’s entrance, walking along the crimson flooring. The place looks regal once he gets to the larger segment; quartz walls and columns peer back at him and faint lights flicker in the ceiling. The area marked off by obsidian before him- he assumes it to be the door- looks ominous and foreboding. The middle parts push out of the wall; Wilbur steps forth and runs his hand over the grooves and finds it chilly despite the warmer weather. 

It’s then that he notices the button in the wall, off to the side. He hopes that he doesn’t have to press it; it sends chills down his spin and he steps away from it. 

_Have you heard the song in the walls?_

_My L’Manburg, my L’Manburg-_

No. _Get it together,_ Wilbur tells himself, closing his eyes. He needs to let Sam know he’s here- he’s the one, after all, who _runs_ the prison. Perhaps the button will alert him to Wilbur’s presence. Perhaps _that’s_ all the button is for. 

It can’t hurt to press, he reasons, inching close. His heart begins to pound and he has to remind himself once more- _in and out; three-and-four._ He is Wilbur. He is not afraid of anything, _especially_ not buttons in the walls. 

His palm falls over it and he presses it; then, he slips back once more, holding his hand to his chest as though he’d burned it.

But- his movements feel slow, now. His _hand_ moves slower, as he retracts it; his _feet_ move slower, as he slinks away. 

_Keep breathing,_ Wilbur reminds himself- 

And then those middle stones, pushed out of the obsidian arch, _move._

They draw back into the rest of the platform and Wilbur finds himself staring at the familiar purple whirl of a Nether portal. He has, since arriving at the DSMP, become more familiar with the Nether. It still scares him, marginally, but he’s better about it now. 

So, without much pretense, he steps into the portal. 

He’d expected to pop out in the Nether, surrounded by boiling heat and burning rocks. Instead, he comes into a circular room, with quartz pillars and a sideways portal, only slightly taller than himself. The walls behind the pillars are still checkered, but the floor is all uneven stone. 

There’s no entrance. No exits. Was Wilbur ever supposed to enter through the portal in the first place? 

He closes his eyes again, feeling disoriented, and re-enters the portal. With his hands, however slow they feel, he massages his temples and then his eyes with the heel of his palms. When he opens them again, he’s no longer standing in a checkered room. 

He’s standing in one with lights gleaming beneath his feet, the familiar green of Sam’s skin serving to calm him. He stands behind a desk, a book laid out before him facing Wilbur. There are more quartz columns- Wilbur reckons they’ll be abundant throughout the rest of the prison. 

To either side of Sam stands two levers, above which are dark signs. Wilbur spares no time to read them, and instead glances behind him- the portal, there, spans the entire length of the wall. 

_God,_ thinks Wilbur. _How much time did this_ take?

“Wilbur,” says Sam, in that monotone drawl of his. “I wasn’t expecting you.” 

“You couldn’t have,” Wilbur returns, truthfully. “I wasn’t expecting me, either.” 

To that, Sam only inches up a brow. The sounds of the portal seemingly become louder amiss the length of silence. Wilbur reaches up and grips at his curls- a nervous habit he’s had for a while, now. When he realizes he’s doing it, he pulls down his hand, acting as though he were only fixing his hair. Then, he pulls at his collar. 

“I’m here to see Dream.” 

Again, Sam just levels him with that unimpressed stare. 

“I’m not going to kill him. Or try to break him out. I just want to talk.” 

“Fine by me,” says Sam, finally, with a shrug. “You’re going to need to come up here and read this book before you can see him. Outloud- that way I know you’ve read it.” 

Carefully, Wilbur steps up to the stand where the book sits. He places the palms of his hands on the sides of it, feeling smooth paper beneath them. It’s calming; _grounding,_ in a way. Wilbur does his best to focus on it before he focuses on the words themselves. This entire prison gives him a bad feeling- a _horrible_ feeling. How had Tommy felt, when he first came to see Dream? And the times after? 

“I,” starts Wilbur, “hereby assume all of the risks of visiting the holding cell” -what risks? Is Dream likely to attempt to kill him?- “including by the way of example and not limitation, any risks that may arise from-” 

His voice teeters off. _Negligence or carelessness on the part of the Prison guards._

Wilbur has a very, _very_ bad feeling about all of this. 

“Continue,” says Sam, and Wilbur does even as his voice threatens to give out. 

As he reads the rest of the passage, he understands far too well that he might not make it out of this prison alive. While he isn’t afraid of death- not anymore- that doesn’t mean this contract doesn’t shake him to the very core. This contract asks him to excuse _anything_ that may happen to him inside of these walls- whether it be by Sam’s own hand or Dream’s. 

Wilbur picks up the pen beside him and signs his name. 

If he dies, so be it. 

As he reaches out and hands Sam the book, he realizes just how slow he feels. Sam doesn’t comment so Wilbur doesn’t ask; instead, Sam puts away the book into the chest before him and turns his gaze back up to Wil. 

“I have a few questions to ask you, before we go any further.” 

Something uneasy flits through Wilbur’s gut. “Okay.” 

“When’s the last time you’ve been to the prison?” 

_Stupid question-_ “Never.” 

“Where is your place of residence currently located?” 

Wilbur tells him Technoblade’s house- tries to explain the general location; deep in the snow, surrounded by mountains and ocean and trees. That’s where he came back to life; that’s where he’s staying as he tries to pretend like he’s getting better. Tommy comes and goes often- the trip from here to there no longer takes days because of the portals. That’s how Wilbur got here today- he’d slipped away from Phil and made his way to this damned Prison. 

He isn’t very sure if he regrets it or not, though he’d much rather be curled up in Techno’s house, pretending as if Phil hadn’t made him laugh.

“Do you think the prisoner is _deserving_ of being locked up?” 

Without missing a beat, Wilbur spits, _“Yes.”_

Sam nods and says something under his breath. Then, he asks, “What’s your prior relationship with the prisoner?” 

_The prisoner,_ thinks Wilbur. _Not Dream._

“We dated,” Wilbur replies flatly. There’s no sense in avoiding it- the entirety of the DSMP knows it. “But now he’s just the asshole who _manipulated_ my little brother.”

“You don’t have any current feelings for him?” 

Wilbur shakes his head.

This time, Sam hums. He continues through a list of questions- one on exams, another on items, and a third on Sam’s overall authority. Wilbur walked into this knowing that Sam’s word would be law, inside of these walls- and now that he’s here, he understands how daunting the idea is. Still- Tommy made it in and out alive, multiple times. Wilbur will be okay. Even if Sam tells him to kill himself; even if Sam _kills_ Wilbur; even if _Dream_ does, instead. 

He’ll be okay. 

The questions finish up, leaving Wilbur with a sour taste in his mouth, and Sam flicks up one of the levers. He orders Wilbur into the side room that opens up. 

“I’m going to ask you to put all of your items into the locker,” explains Sam. “Then, press the button in there for the locker key. You can keep it inside of an ender chest” -he gestures to the greenish-blue box sitting before him- “while you’re visiting Dream.” 

“All of them?” 

“All of them.” 

That’s not a hard thing- Wilbur hasn’t ever carried much on him. He has a few odds and ends, like a quiver of arrows on his hip along with either a bow or crossbow at any given time; a sword- he’d only started carrying it during his stay in Pogtopia; his guitar. (He’s without the guitar, today. He hasn’t played since he came back, after all.) Everything else is mainly just food and a few ender pearls- there’s no armour to strip off; Wilbur’s never liked to wear it. 

Though he feels like he’s marching through water, he strips off his weapons and empties his pockets. None of the weapons are special enough to bear their own names; but, all the same, Wilbur tucks them into the chest with utmost care. 

Then, once more, Wilbur has to force himself to press a button. The size of the locker is nearly the same as Wilbur’s final resting place- or, _supposed_ final resting place. It brings back memories Wilbur wishes would just _lay dormant-_

_I have been here, like, seven or eight times-_ seven or eight times _I have been here, Phil._

Sam tells him, “Just push the button.” 

Wilbur does. A small book falls onto the ground with a soft _thump,_ only making Wilbur flinch. He breathes in and out- _three-and-four-_ and then picks it up, reading the title: _Locker 1 Key._ When he looks up once more, he notices that a part of the stone wall has moved out, effectively keeping the chest with all of his things locked up tight.

He opens up the book and skims over what’s written inside- _Lose the key,_ it basically says, _and you lose your things._

Well, Wilbur doesn’t have much of an attachment to any of his things, if he’s being honest. Still, he slips the book into the ender chest nearby, and then doubles back to Sam. 

Without saying a word, Sam pulls down another lever and directs Wilbur into another hall- this time, the ceilings are so low they nearly brush up against the tip of Wilbur’s head, where his beanie sits atop his mess of curls. On the floor is a perfect square marked out of blue sea lanterns- rare, but not overtly so. 

“Stand on the blue square,” says Sam. 

Wilbur does so obediently and starts when walls rise up around him. There’s only a sliver of space that Wilbur can see through- he finds himself staring right at Sam as something drops onto him and-

 _Everything hurts._

_It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it h u r t s;_ Wilbur closes his eyes and screams into clenched teeth, and then there is nothing beneath his feet and he is so very afraid that he is going to open his eyes and see Schlatt once more but-

Instead, he opens his eyes, and finds himself in a narrow hall- a different one, that he hadn’t been in before. 

“Come with me,” Sam says, and leads him to the edge of the floor. 

In front of them is a large expanse of emptiness. If Wilbur were to step forward into it, he would probably die from the fall; or, at the very least, get stuck down there with no way of getting back up. When he leans over the side to see just how far down it goes, he notes that there’s a _pit of lava_ waiting down there for him. 

Wilbur sucks in a breath and pulls once more at his curls. “What the hell-” 

Sam just pulls a lever and they watch as the lava drips away, leaving only rough, black stone. Then, the floor rises up, and Sam gestures for Wilbur to follow once more. They spill out into a room with an awfully high ceiling, along with a large, spiral staircase that crawls up- assuredly- stories. As Wilbur stares, a large wall of iron catches his eyes- 

Then, Sam pulls _another_ lever, and that iron pulls back. Wilbur waits, once more, for the floor to rise up and then walks through to the new hall. This one is lined with iron doors and bars, like prison cells fortified by obsidian. No- not like. They _are_ prison cells fortified by obsidian. Wilbur finds it impossible to believe that Dream could be kept behind something as flimsy as _iron,_ when the rest of the prison is inescapable blocks all piled onto each other.

 _This is what they mean by an immovable object,_ Wilbur thinks. 

As he looks up to see a railing of iron bars, indicating an upper landing, Sam explains, “These are the main holding cells. I have to lock us inside, just in case something happens. That way, this is as far as _they_ get.” 

_They-_ Dream, probably.

Sam tells Wilbur to enter the little box-room at the end of the hall, which contains uncomfortable looking seats- reminiscent of some awful waiting room. Wilbur doesn’t sit, even as all of the entrances shut, leaving just him and Sam inside of the room. 

_Do you know what this button is?_

“This is another checkpoint,” says Sam, oblivious to Wilbur’s inner turmoil. “Decontamination.” 

_Decontamination_ sends more shivers up Wilbur’s spine and he, once more, finds himself tugging at his curls. But, when Sam asks him to step onto the blue square tucked against the wall, Wilbur does so. 

“I’m going to perform a manual search,” he says, before patting Wilbur down. Once he’s done, Sam straightens up and pulls down another lever. “Good. Proceed forward through to the next room.” 

This next room is smaller than the locker room. Wilbur feels it’s walls press against his sides, compressing him into something that’s no longer human. _In and out, three-and-four,_ Wilbur reminds himself; though, this time, the words sound like they’ve been spoken by Phil, late in the night. The entrance to this room shuts, too, and Wilbur can’t make himself tear his eyes away from the little waterfall spilling out of a hole in the wall, dripping down into another in the floor. 

“Step onto that shroom light,” says Sam. 

Wilbur does so. He feels like a puppet- some sort of _pawn._ He hates it- _loathes_ it. Wilbur is not a _toy_ and he cannot be _told what to do_ as though he’s a _child._ And- as much as he wants to scream this at Sam, he knows the power Sam holds over him. 

So, instead of getting angry, Wilbur just… keeps feeling tired. Exhausted. Bury-me-deep-so-I-don’t-have-to-feel-this. 

He stands there, and then the walls jut up before him once more and- 

_“Fuck-”_ says Wilbur, as something sharp rushes through his body. It hurts- not the same sort as before, but it’s sharp and ever present and makes him want to retch. When the wall falls, Sam tells him to step forward. Though Wilbur’s entire body is _screaming,_ he follows through with his orders, like a toy soldier or doll. “What the _hell,_ Sam-” 

“We’re nearing the prisoner,” explains Sam. “I need you as weak as possible; that way, you’re an easy target in case something happens.” 

_An easy target._

Wilbur wants to laugh. He’s been an easy target his entire life- unable to fight like Techno; to protect himself and _surround_ himself like Tommy. Having one foot in the grave or not- it won’t change the fact that he’s always been weak. 

Sam hands him a potion and tells him to drink it. “Water breathing. We’ll swim through here.” 

The swim isn’t notable in any way, shape, or form- though, notes Wilbur, he swims slower than he’d have thought. The water brings him out into a larger room. One side is littered with levers, the other with stands and books. It’s an unwelcoming place- especially with the doorway covered by lavafalls acting as the only possible exit, now that the effects of the potion are wavering. 

“There are two more wavers I need you to sign.” Sam gestures to the books. 

Wilbur reads them, but feels as if he doesn’t process the words. He’s riddled with nerves and wants to go home; he wants to _retch_ and _cry-_ how had Tommy done it, all on his own? 

The first waiver says that if Dream escapes, Wilbur will be held responsible. He will be hunted for sport and slaughtered. He signs it without a second thought. If he dies, then he dies; at this point, he would rather be dead. Dead men don’t feel the same horrible tangle of their insides that Wilbur feels right now. 

The second waiver is simpler- better, even. If something happens _outside_ of the cell, Wilbur could be locked inside of it for up to seven days. While rooming with Dream for that long hardly sounds appetizing- for he’s awfully likely to just _murder_ Dream if he’s stuck there for _that_ long- it’s a nicer thought than being prey to Sam’s predator. He signs this one, too, once he’s read them all out loud. 

“Now- stand inside that little room at the end.” 

The little room- _very_ little, by the wall with the lava- is so thin, the walls press against Wilbur’s shoulders. He breathes a little harder, though it’s not really helping. 

_I am always_ so _close to pressing this button._

_I do, I do… I think- I really do._

“Are you ready?” asks Sam. 

“Yes.” 

The walls rise up again. Wilbur clenches his jaw, ready for pain- maybe _death-_ and- instead is splashed with orange dust. 

Fire resistance. 

“Now stand on the honey blocks and don’t move.” 

The honey blocks push Wilbur straight through the lavafall so suddenly he nearly reels back- he _shouts_ as he catches fire, though the fire doesn’t hurt him. In seconds, he finds himself in a hallway of lava- the ground is covered in it, so far down that he nearly screams. 

Wilbur is not afraid of a lot of things, but he is afraid of whatever the hell it is that Sam has made. 

Sam meets him there and helps put out the flames. Then, he says, “This is the main cell. If Dream tries to kill you, shout for me and I’ll bring you back over here.” 

The _‘with magic’_ part of that is left unsaid and Wilbur finds himself grateful. He’s never been very good with magic- that’s Phil’s domain, not his. Wilbur is good at enchantments and charisma- at building, too. Things that involve his _hands,_ really. 

Like pressing buttons. 

Like twisting words. 

Like tearing apart lives.

He stares at the wall of lava before him and tries not to think about it. Tries- so, _so_ very hard. But- there are so many _things_ slipping through his mind. 

_I don’t even know if the button works- I_ could _press it._

_There was a saying, Phil, by a traitor-_

“This prison-” says Wilbur, ever so suddenly. “Tommy told me that Dream said- Dream told him it wasn’t originally for Tommy. And he said that _you_ told him that it was always meant for _Dream._ Who was right?” 

“Maybe neither of us. Keep looking forward.” 

An order is an order. No matter what’s running through Wilbur’s head, he doesn’t turn away. 

And then the lava stops flowing, and Wilbur is left to see just how much there really was, all along. The now empty room spans nearly what seems like half a mile on all sides, leaving a square room dead in the middle. That is where Dream must be, Wilbur reckons.

That is where Dream is- Wilbur has finally made it to him once more. 

“I need you to move with the bridge as it reaches the prisoner,” says Sam. “Then I’m going to pull it back and you won’t be able to return.” 

Wilbur nods, absentmindedly. He is hardly listening- his eyes have found Dream’s familiar green hoodie, across the way. Wilbur’s breath starts to get a little fast, but at least he’s breathing- in and out, three-and-four. He moves with the platform when it starts edging forward, trying to resist the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. 

He walks over the lava and wonders if this is what it feels like to be powerful. 

But, eventually, he hits the room where Dream is. A barrier has lifted up, separating the two, and they share a silent look. Not a single word reaches the air- Wilbur’s gaze is cold and hateful, Dream’s is tired and missing that spark. 

The lava encases them both and Wilbur sighs- almost in relief- as the barrier slips down.

He and Dream are alone. Finally _alone._

“Hello,” says Wilbur. 

“You’re alive,” replies Dream. 

His voice is as tired as his eyes are, but Wilbur isn’t sure if this is another one of his games. His sweatshirt hangs off of his frame in a way it never had before, shoulders slumped in on himself. Dream doesn’t wear his mask anymore and his hair looks unwashed and dirty. His freckles, once gleaming upon healthily tanned skin, stand out beyond a pale slate. 

Wilbur looks away. 

He will not give Dream pity. He _will not give Dream pity._ He is here to tear Dream apart for what he has done to his boy- to _Wilbur’s boy._

He is the reason why, whenever Tommy stays over, he wakes up in the dead of the night from nightmares. He is the reason why, when Phil and Wilbur were digging holes for flowers, Tommy had to go back inside. He is the reason why, he is the reason _why._

“I am.” 

Wilbur is going to be the reason why Dream dies- _he is going to be the reason why Dream suffers, tonight,_ because he is _so very mad_ and _so very angry._ Wilbur is not tired- he is _upset,_ he is _pissed,_ he is-

“It’s good to see you. Alive, I mean. And in general. The white streak is new.” He paces back towards the chest, tucked against the wall. “I, uh, I should give you a tour, shouldn’t I?”

There’s not much in Dream’s new ‘humble’ abode for him to really show off. There’s a cauldron acting as his sink, a pool of water tucked in the corner- Dream says that, if he attempts to kill himself, there’s wards but up that just _teleport_ him into that pool of water. 

“I can show you,” he offers, tone reminding Wilbur of those early days. (Before Tommy and Wilbur flinched at the sound of fireworks; before sounds like those reduced Wilbur to a mess of _buttons_ and _eyes in the walls._ Back when Dream would ask Wilbur to join him on a picnic; back when they watched the sunset instead of sleeping because everything was too small.) 

“No,” says Wilbur. “You don’t have to show me.” 

_When I kill you-_ if _I do- will you come back?_

Other than the water, there’s a chest and a book-stand. Wilbur trails up to the book-stand and checks the diary settled on top of it- it’s so easy to tell that the title was written by Tommy and not only because of the small, cramped curl of his letters. It makes him laugh- a short, choppy thing- as he runs his fingertips over the page. 

He closes his eyes and imagines that his brother is here with him, instead of Dream. He and Tommy, like he and Dream, aren’t the same as they once were all those years ago. 

“I remember everything you did to Tommy,” says Wilbur, without preamble. “During his exile, I mean.” 

Dream peers off into space, eyes centered just to the right of the clock above the cauldron. “I told him I was sorry, when he visited.” 

“Are you?” 

There is a long pause that passes between them. Wilbur breathes in and tries not to think about how close the walls are; how _small_ the room is. Then, Dream looks up and meets Wilbur’s gaze head-on. 

His eyes spark and it is familiar. Not in the way it was, once upon a time- but in the way it was when Dream dug that _goddamn hole_ and told Tommy that very first time: _Put everything in the hole._

 _I hate you,_ thinks Wilbur. _I hate you so goddamn much and I wish you were dead._

“No,” says Dream. “I don’t think I am.” 

It takes all of Wilbur’s resolve not to _leap_ at him- not to _tear_ into Dream with his own two hands, because he knows he is sluggish and tired and _slow_ and he knows that he is more likely to drop dead himself than he is to kill Dream. But- _I want you to shut up. I want you to die. I want you_ gone _and I never want to see you again, you goddamn bastard, you-_

“I don’t think I see why you _care,_ either,” says Dream. “You stood by, you know. You let it all happen.” 

“I _care_ because he’s my _brother!”_ Wilbur shouts, heedless to whether or not Sam can hear him. “He is my _brother_ and I _love him,_ so of-fucking- _course_ I care!” 

When Dream speaks, he is no longer playing kind and welcoming. He is back to the Dream Wilbur remembers, from those memories Ghostbur left him with. He is back to the Dream Wilbur remembers, from when Ghostbur was driven from the sewers and sent to trudge through the snow and the cold. 

“You didn’t,” he says. “You _let it happen,_ Wil. You’re no better than me.” 

Something stutters inside of his chest. Freezes, maybe. Dislodges. Whatever the word, Wilbur feels so very wrong all over again. But- it is more than his body and his hair; it is his emotions and his thoughts and his _soul._

All of it- it all feels so, _so_ very wrong. 

“You’re right,” says Wilbur, carefully. He feels himself slip into that cold, distant rage that systematically destroyed his relationship with Tommy all those months ago. “I _did_ let it happen. It’s _both_ of our faults.” 

Dream narrows his eyes. He doesn’t reply. 

“At least I’m trying to _fix it._ I can own up to what I’ve done, Dream, but you- _you can’t.”_

Now, Dream scoffs. “I don’t _have_ to,” he says. “This is _my_ nation- I was only doing what I had to.”

“To do _what? Control_ everything?” Wilbur pulls back from the diary and sits down on top of the chest. He fiddles with his fingerless gloves- something he’d grabbed before he left for no real important reason. “Control _everyone?_ That’s- that’s not something you have to do. You realize that the world is better _without_ you controlling everyone?” 

“No. I needed to get rid of their attachments-” 

“So they’d all look up to you? Like- Like you’re fucking _Peter Pan_ and they’re all the goddamn _Lost Boys?”_

They had the same green scheme going on, Wilbur noted, laughing to himself. Though, depending on the story, Peter Pan was a hero. In others, he was a bloodthirsty brat who killed off his lost boys when they grew too old. Could that be Dream? Thinning out those in the DSMP once they grew unimportant? 

That’s what he’d tried to do with Tubbo, just to keep Tommy compliant. 

“It _is_ the Dream SMP,” says Dream, voice suddenly tired again. “Why don’t you get it, Wil?” 

Like a viper, Wilbur strikes faster than he’d thought he could have. His fist slams against Dream’s jaw- not in a place that would shatter or break it, but in a place that would cause enough pain and bruising to satisfy him for the time being. It’s still only a sliver of the pain Wilbur longs to give him. 

“You aren’t _Dream!”_ he spits. “You’re _Cornelius,_ and every time you choose _Dream_ over him, you’re _losing parts of yourself!_ You’ve _lost_ so much already because of this- this- this _delusion_ of yours-” 

“You’re one to talk,” Dream- because, no, he isn't Cornelius anymore- replies, hotly. “ _You_ blew up L’Manburg first. _You_ ruined Tommy’s life, first.” 

For all of a moment, Wilbur strives to keep up that ice wall of his- to calm down before he makes things so much worse. He tries to focus on his heartbeat like Phil taught him years ago, but he’s no longer familiar with it’s off, wayward beat. 

It’s not enough to reel him back in and, so, Wilbur _burts-_

(Bursts like a mound of TNT once it’s wick is ignited; like L’Manburg as heroes and villains and those in between lay siege; like Tommy’s items as Dream destroys them once more.) 

_“I’ve hurt Tommy!_ Is that what you want to hear? I’ve _hurt him._ I’m, by all means, no better than you, Cornelius.” _(Please, please, hear what I am trying to say, Cornelius.)_ “I’ve manipulated him just like you have. I’ve hurt Tubbo, just like you- and I don’t deserve either of these boys. And- I’ve done _so much wrong_ to everyone I love, _also like you have-_ ” He starts counting on his fingers. “Techno, Phil, Niki. My own _son.”_

 _In and out; three-and-four._

“I am not _perfect,_ but I am _trying my best.”_ His voice breaks beneath the weight of his words. “I’m not _good,_ either- But at least I’ve gone to Hell, _damn you._ I’m _trying_ to pay for my sins and that’s more than you can say, you goddamn _bastard-”_

“I was there for Tommy when you weren’t, Wil. I can see why you’re getting upset, but it’s honestly not needed.” 

Wilbur’s fists clench. He has to hold himself back from _decking_ Dream. “You don’t get to tell me what’s needed. You don’t get to tell me _how to feel!”_

“You’re being emotional.” 

“Because of what you’ve _done to my brother!”_

“I did what I had to do-” 

This time, when Wilbur reels back his fist, he _slams_ his knuckles right into Dream’s nose. Dream stumbles back, clapping his hand over his nose. Red spurts and Wilbur’s gut churns. Here he is, hurting more people he used to care about- and yet, he hardly can find itself in him to actually care. Dream deserves this. 

Dream _deserves this._

“I can’t believe I ever loved you,” says Wilbur. His shoulders shake and his chest heaves. He’s breathing, alright, and it is a sign that he’s _alive._ “I should’ve realized how bad you were when Tommy told me about the discs.” 

He takes a step back, away from Dream and the walls and the suffocating feeling that crawls up his throat. _I hate you. I hate you so goddamn much. I_ hate _you, I do._

“Sam,” he calls, over his shoulder. That should be enough- Sam _had_ told him to call for him when he was ready to do- or at least if something happened. And- something is happening. Wilbur is afraid that if he stays here for any longer, he’ll snap Dream’s neck with his own two hands. 

Dream’s not saying anything. He’s just staring at Wilbur, his mouth hanging open, like he’s actually hurt. Wilbur doesn’t believe it for a moment. Instead, he closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see that expression anymore.

 _You’ve heard of Eret, haven’t you? Well, he had a saying-_

“We were never meant to be.” 

When Wilbur opens his eyes again, he’s standing in that large room with Sam. Something hurts, deep down in his chest, but he shoves it away; all he feels is tired. 

His body feels wrong and there’s nothing he can do about it- but maybe, this time, he also feels his heart break. 

Maybe. 

**Author's Note:**

> i've a tumblr now for dsmp. it's very empty. ill do something with it eventually. :/
> 
> [unfinished-sympathies](https://unfinished-sympathies.tumblr.com/)


End file.
